


a tumblr miscellany

by cassyl



Category: Fresh Meat (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Ficlet, Gen, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Tumblr Prompt, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-16 17:24:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2278317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassyl/pseuds/cassyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lovely snogandagrope reminded me that I've been meaning to archive a bunch of assorted ficlets I've written on tumblr at one time or another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock + John for tartanfics

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who prompted these! I'll try to remember to add any more I write. If you ever want to make me write something, just drop by on [tumblr](http://likecastle.tumblr.com/) and tell me what you'd like to see. I am always open to prompts, always always always.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For tartanfics, who asked for "Sherlock interpreting really random things as symbolic of his relationship with John and using them for awkward romantic gestures."

It started with the fire safe – state of the art, with a biometric lock and everything. John found it a rather curious housewarming gift, but it was thoughtful, in its own way.

The thing is, it didn’t end there. Sherlock has never been what anyone would call demonstrative, but since his return, he’s practically been showering John with presents – an antique cast-iron boot scraper when Sherlock noticed mud accumulating on the soles of John’s shoes, and then a field surgical kit, delivered to John’s door by messenger like a bunch of roses.

He’s started texting John more frequently, as well, and not just for case-related business. Often they’re camera phone pictures presented with absolutely no context, and whenever John asks, Sherlock just says, _Oh, it reminded me of you._ Last week, it was a poster for the play _Terror by Night_ , and a few days before that it was the front window of a comics shop. And now, for some reason, Sherlock is texting him photos of open-heart surgery. 

It’s a bit of a shock, really, to be dragged out of sleep by the chime of his text alert to find his bed empty and a photo of a raw exposed human heart staring back at him from his mobile’s screen. 

He can’t imagine what Sherlock could possibly mean. As it’s five in the morning, John decides that a direct line of questioning is best.

_Why are you sending me pictures of a coronary artery bypass?_

The response comes almost instantly: _I thought you might like it. – SH_

John finds he’s laughing despite himself. He can’t help imagining Sherlock curled up on the couch in Baker St, staring at his mobile in the dark, his avid expression lit by the faint glow of the screen. _Who on earth would like being sent photos of internal organs?_ he writes back. Then, with a grin, he adds, _I mean, besides you, of course._

_Yes, exactly, WHO? – SH_

John has to stare at this last message for a while before he realizes that Sherlock isn’t asking the obvious question about his own behavior, but in fact seriously expects an answer.

As he considers his response, he stretches out long under the sheets, tucking his toes into pockets of warmth. He can hear the rattle of pipes, water running in the bathroom. _I dunno,_ he types, _not a doctor I assume?_

_Decidedly not._

John had forgotten, somehow, the way even Sherlock’s texts manage to sound so distinctly like his voice. It leaves him almost giddy, how very much like before this is. 

_So you’re saying someone was intentionally sending these,_ John writes. _As what, pickup lines?_

There’s a long pause from Sherlock’s end. When, at last, he answers, the message says: _Would that work? – SH_

_Could be some kind of Crash thing I suppose._

“I thought I heard your mobile.”

John looks up to see Mary standing in the doorway, wrapped in his striped dressing gown. Her hair is mussed, her feet bare, and she’s looking at him with a warm, sleepy expression.

“Case stuff?” she asks, and John wonders if she can tell from his expression alone that it’s Sherlock.

“Let’s hope so,” he says with a laugh, and holds a hand out to her, beckoning her back to bed. “What are you doing up? I thought we were having a lie-in today, Mrs. Watson.” 

“Ah, so we were.” She takes his hand, lets him pull her onto the mattress. 

John sets his mobile on silent and sets it on the bedside table. He doesn’t notice when the next text comes.


	2. Vod/Oregon for peevee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For peevee, who who reblogged some Fresh Meat [gifs](http://iampeevee.tumblr.com/post/68324468797/cinematicway-vod-youve-got-to-stay-because) and of course I promptly watched the entire series because Vod and Oregon looked so adorable.

It’s been a long time since anyone called her Oregon. She’s been Melissa — occasionally Liss, and more recently Professor Shawcross — for years. In fact, she hasn’t really heard from anyone from the house on Hartnell Avenue in ages, except for the occasional baby photo from Howard and Candice. But then last Tuesday she had an email from someone calling herself Violet and it took her an embarrassingly long time to realize that, good Lord, it really was Vod.

They decided to meet for drinks for old times’ sake, and of course she shows up early. While she waits for Vod—or Violet, now, she supposes—she thinks about what she ought to say. “Can’t believe you’re not dead or in jail!” seems a bit harsh, and she doesn’t want to come off sounding insincere with some trite bullshit like “It’s so great to see you!” or “You look so great!” Because what if Vod _doesn’t_ look that great? (All that hard living is rough on the skin, after all, some judgmental voice in the back of her head that sounds like her mother reminds her.) But it will be good to see her, no matter what.

As it turns out, her first remarks don’t much matter. Vod—Violet!—is late, which shouldn’t surprise her, and so she’s halfway through her second glass of white by the time they hit the small talk. She’s hardly listening, partly because she’s slightly tipsy now, but mostly because Vod looks _good_. She’s just as tall and lanky as ever, and her hair is still short — she’s still working that androgynous look, though now it’s less oversized men’s clothes from Oxfam, more a well-fitting blazer and jeans, though the braces, delightfully, are still in evidence. The overconfident swagger that used to carry her across the pub floor has been replaced by the grace of real self-possession.

Somehow, before she even realizes it, they’re heading back to Vod’s place for another drink, and then another drink means another, and she hasn’t been drunk like this since her student days, but it feels good — better than she could have expected — and Vod’s taken off her jacket and she’s wearing a white ribbed vest underneath just like old times and finally Oregon knows what she’s really wanted to say to Vod, the thing she should have started with the second Vod walked in, the thing she should have said years and years ago: “Remember that time I said you weren’t my type? Well, I was wrong.”


	3. Sherlock + John for anderson-stole-my-jumper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For anderson-stole-my-jumper, who asked, "Can you write something about sherlock leaving the wedding?"

The noise on the dance floor swells, sentimental disco amalgamated with laughter, conversation, the clatter of ice in glasses. Scores of feet shuffle on polished hardwood. Someone is bellowing along to the chorus. More laughter. Sherlock feels it all pressing in on him, a touch between his shoulder blades, and, well, John is right, there are limits.

In the coatroom, mercifully out of sight, he tugs at his tie where it’s constricting his throat, the silk intractable, his fingers refusing to comply. Panic rises up in him for a moment, the way it did when he was a boy and a tag scratched at his neck or a sweater was too tight, a marrow-deep sense of something irremediably _not right_ , an unbearable crawling sensation that always made him want to tear his skin off. But then knot comes undone and he drags the tie off and he can breathe again. 

His coat and scarf come off their hanger readily and then he is out the door, finally, propelling himself into the garden grown dark with the evening. The gravel of the path crunches loud underfoot and his feet strain to accommodate the shifting surface below them. Even with his coat on, his scarf around his neck, every inch of exposed skin is awake to the cool late-spring air. Overheated from the crowded room, that’s all, but still, his nerves are all alight.

On the street, he contemplates hailing a cab, but on second thought decides against it. He can’t stand the thought of sitting still in the back seat, of making any more small talk than he already has today. Better to walk. It’s only a few miles—give or take. He could do with the exercise. Isn’t that the excuse people give? The pavement is pleasantly unyielding under his feet and the fresh gasp of the breeze at his throat is a relief. 

It would be too much to ask that he should think of nothing as he walks, but at least this way he can focus on the motion of his body, one foot in front of the other, breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth. It feels—good. He could just keep going like this, keep walking, walk away. But, of course, there is no away, not really. John will always be with him. Even in ██████ he was there, the voice in the back of Sherlock’s head. And when did that become the case? When did he find himself indivisible from John? He can’t remember. It must have happened while Sherlock wasn’t looking.

This won’t alter anything, he reminds himself—John’s words. That pause, when they were sitting on the bench by the Guards Museum, John’s long intake of breath through his nose—bracing himself for a conversation he’d rather not have. Well, Sherlock would rather not have had it, either, but here they are.

It won’t alter anything. John’s right about that, as far as he can be. Nothing will change. And maybe that’s the problem.


	4. John/Sherlock for peevee and ghoulkitten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courtesy of ghoulkitten, who asked if I'd write something for peevee.

“I am not,” he says imperiously, “a drunk.” His claim is slightly undermined by the fact that he’s listing forward on his feet, eyes unfocussed and bright. “I don’t even _drink_. No practical experience. You know, not a—hm—habitch . . . habitch . . . a habitual drinker. Downers—“ He snorts. “No, boring, dull—rubber fingers, slowing you down, no good at all.”

The PC who’s come to collect them from the crime scene just rolls her eyes and nods. She’s seen worse, after all.

In the back of the patrol car, he’s laughing. “Jam sandwich!” He slumps against the seat and shoves his companion’s shoulder. “John—it’s a jam—” But he can’t get the rest of the words out through all the sniggering.

“ ‘ve only been drunk two other times,” he informs the custody sergeant when they arrive at the station. “The first time was with at some ghastly house party after the fresher’s ball and somebody had had been to Switzerland on summer hols and brought back absinthe—which I’d always assumed was just hype, but surprisingly not. On reflection the shots probably didn’t help, either. But anyway, I was _very_ drunk— _elaborately_ drunk—and I had to walk back to college and then Victor’s dog bit me, although I didn’t know it was Victor at the time. Your hair is very odd,” he tells the custody sergeant. “Is it one of those—does it come off?” He mimes a gesture like tipping a hat. “No . . . no! I get a second go ‘cause I guessed right, those’re the rules! It’s dye!” He turns to tell this to his companion, triumphant. “Hair dye!” His partner, however, is asleep standing up. “Nothing to be ashamed of,” he tells the custody sergeant consolingly. “Going grey’s fine. It’s all fine. B’sides, a bit of grey can be quite distinguished. Show’s you’ve got . . . whatsit. Experience. That you’re an experienced man. Here, look at my hair, you see?” He grabs a hank of his own curly, dark hair. “I’m not experienced. Do you see? But he is.” He points to his companion, his arm loose. Then, to the sergeant: “And you are. S’nice, experience.”

In the holding cell, with his companion already asleep on the floor, he staggers onto the cot before turning back to the PC who’s locking the door. “Don’t go yet,” he says. “I have a—secret.” He leans forward, though there’s still several feet of cell separating them, and says in a loud whisper, “The other time I was drunk I’m not allowed to remember. He was there, and I was there, and . . . how did it go again? Ah, yes, he’s allowed to remember it and I’m not. Deleted it. Safer that way. We agreed. Said if he could delete it, he would, too. So that’s the way it is. He remembers and I’m not allowed to.”


	5. Margaret/Mrs. Hudson for tazigo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For tazigo, who asked for a fic but gave me free reign to write whatever I wanted.

It’s been a long time since Mrs. Hudson has seen herself as anything other than someone’s wife—or, well, widow, but that’s the same thing, really, isn’t it? Her marriage was never what you’d call any easy one, but in the end she’s been Mrs. Frank Hudson for longer than she wasn’t, and it’s all too easy to forget what it was like before that was the case.

It comes back to her, a little, when Margaret shows up at her door one day and exclaims, “Oh, it is you, isn’t it!” And it’s most definitely Margaret, too, rather greyer, plumper, and more square-jawed than she used to be, but undoubtedly the same bright-eyed girl who ran down the pebbled beach at Brighton in nothing but her knickers at dawn and dove into the ice-cold water without a second thought. “I saw your picture in a slide show on that detective’s blog. I recognized you immediately.” Margaret smiles, thin-lipped and slightly sad, but also very, very fond. “You haven’t aged a day.”

Margaret is back in London now, she explains, finally retired from teaching English abroad—France, just like she always said she would. “I always said I’d retire when I was dead,” she says over tea in Mrs. Hudson’s afternoon-bright kitchen, “but after fifty odd years, the fun sort of goes out of the thing a bit, and I do so like to have fun.” Mrs. Hudson remembers.

They chat easily, as if hardly any time has passed. Mrs. Hudson can’t remember the last time she had a conversation about much of anything besides the weather and what’s on telly and what the neighbors across the street are up to. She’s very fond of Mrs. Turner, she is, but Marie Turner is not a woman of ideas. She’d forgotten what it’s like to speak about things other than someone’s grandchildren—or someone’s murder investigations, come to that. Margaret was always a reader, a thinker, a woman with opinions, as Mr. Hudson called it (his tone disapproving, his mouth rucked up to one side). And Mrs. Hudson remembers that she, too, was once a woman with opinions. They come rising back up to the front of her mind now at the oddest moments—arguments she and Margaret had about that funny-looking Frenchman with the big ears, Jean-Paul something, half-remembered passages of Simone de Beauvoir. _Because she does not act, she observes, she feels, she records; a color, a smile awakens profound echoes within her._ She sits at the kitchen table, laughing, laughing, rocked with laughter, at the memory of herself at twenty, bewildered, reading French philosophy on Margaret’s floor.

Margaret emails her newspaper articles, loans her books. They go to the cinema, and they argue just like old times, but they also laugh, and on nights when the picture lets out late, they come back to Baker St. for a nightcap, still giggling like breathless schoolgirls, and one night, when Margaret kisses her, the skin of her lips paper-soft and smooth, Mrs. Hudson is surprised to recall that there are ways to love someone that don’t require violent passion and betrayals that tear one in two—ways that are quiet and lovely and sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS - Margaret/Mrs. Hudson forever!


	6. John/Mary for snogandagrope and neverrwhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For snogandagrope, who asked, "Slide Mary into your Bookstore AU?" and neverrwhere who corroborated.

John will admit that since his encounter with Sherlock Holmes, he may have been wallowing a bit. In his defense, it’s difficult, going from that sort of high octane, well, everything (the case—the sex) back to ordinary life, in which the closest he gets to crime fighting is catching a would-be shoplifter or two. It’s self-indulgent and silly, he knows—there was never any chance he would have been anything more than a flash in the pan to someone like Sherlock Holmes—especially when, in actual fact, things are going quite well for John.

Well enough, in fact, that he’s finally decided to hire someone part-time to help out. He expects all the applicants will be disaffected university students who think _Sin City_ is the epitome of noir, but then in walks Mary Morstan, a few years younger than John, sharply observant, and perfectly lovely, blonde and soft-hipped and bedroom-eyed—in short, just about the last person John would have thought would be interested in a job in a mystery bookshop. But then she starts waxing poetic about Harriet Vane and critiquing his shelving system, and he knows he’s found the right person for the job—and the right person for himself, as well.

John’s never been good at separating his work life from his personal life, or at taking his time, so naturally he decides to ask Mary out by the end of her first day on the job. But he never really has the chance to. She brings him lunch from her favorite cafe, and then they go out for coffee after the shop closes the next day, and then it’s drinks and then dinner and then a Fritz Lang retrospective and her full mouth against his as they fall back onto her sofa and before he knows it he’s dating his shop assistant. It’s not exactly fucking up against his bedroom window within hours of meeting one another, but that’s—fine, actually. Good, in fact. The thing with Sherlock Holmes was intense, but with Mary things are easy, warm. There are no sharp edges with Mary, no moments of cutting self-doubt. Sherlock Holmes was fantasy, an idyll as scripted by Ian Fleming. Mary, on the other hand—Mary is real life. Real in the most extraordinary way imaginable, her throaty laugh and devilish sense of humor, her head for figures and this knowing way of looking at him that just makes him want to get down on his knees.

So things are—well, they’re good. It’s been a while since John has been able to say that unequivocally, without a measure of self-pity. Because that’s the thing about the fantasy, isn’t it? No matter how good things actually are, the fantasy always has you thinking they could be better. But John couldn’t ask for better than Mary sitting beside him in bed of an evening, glancing sidelong at him from behind her dog-eared copy of _The Man Who Was Thursday_ with a wry, promising expression that means he’d better mark his place before she does it for him. Which is to say that when John says things are good, well, what he means is that they’re better than he could have ever hoped.

And then one day, the bell over the door rings and there’s Sherlock bloody Holmes, just when John had started to think he’d dreamed Sherlock up for his own amusement. Sherlock’s about to speak when Mary comes out from the back with their teas and Sherlock goes stiff, his shoulders jerking back, and John knows he’s worked it out, deduced their relationship from the way Mary holds his mug or the wrinkles in his shirt. He wants to say he’s sorry, that he didn’t ever expect to see Sherlock again and how could he have known, but suddenly it occurs to him that he’s not sorry at all.


	7. Natasha/Maria for avesnongrata and nothingcomplete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For avesnongrata and nothingcomplete, who both asked for a Natasha/Maria "two miserable people meeting at a wedding" AU.

The Electric Slide, Maria thought, must have been developed in a gulag somewhere. By the last “boogie woogie woogie woogie!”, even the toughest of prisoners would crack, though she was fairly certain that forcing someone to line dance violated the Geneva Convention.

Not for the first time today, Maria wondered how she’d let herself get talked into squeezing into a hideous purple bridesmaid’s dress and dyed-to-match heels to be paraded around and photographed ad nauseum and forced to dance with some handsy groomsman with a goatee. There was so much hair spray in her hair that the top of her head felt like it had been laminated and all she wanted was to sit somewhere quiet with her eyes closed and nurse the seething headache she’d had since the DJ took over. She checked the clock on her cell phone for the third time in the past two minutes, wondering again if it was too soon to leave.

“You look like you could use a drink,” someone said, setting down a Manhattan at her elbow.

Maria steeled herself to politely-but-firmly turn down the latest in a series of fifth cousins and college roommates who had been hitting on her all night, but when she turned, she found herself facing someone else entirely: a redhead in a skintight red cocktail dress, which definitely suited her better than Maria’s gown suited her— _much_ better, Maria couldn’t help thinking, appreciating the way the seams eased along the woman’s narrow waist and soft hips.

“Oh, God, thank you.” She took a swallow from the drink and let out an appreciative sigh. “This is the best thing to happen to me all day.”

“Really?” The redhead quirked one eyebrow. “We should work on improving that.”

Maria found herself smiling over the rim of her glass. “It’s getting better already.” 

The redhead sat down next to her, crossing her legs so that Maria got a glimpse of her smooth, powerful thigh as the hem rode up.

“So,” Maria said, to distract herself from the thought of those thighs pressed against the sides of her head, “bride’s side or groom’s side?”

“Groom’s,” she replied. With a careless little flick of her shoulder, she added, “We’re old friends.” That studied little show of indifference made Maria wonder whether they hadn’t once been more than friends, and for a moment she was struck by how miserable it would have been to sit through all these heartfelt speeches and cheesy photo ops if one half of the happy couple had been someone she used to love. Even if they were good terms now—and they’d have to be, or why else would she have come?—it must have been a wrench, to witness the end of that part of your life.

“Do you maybe . . . want to get out of here?”

Which was how Maria wound up in a side staircase, back pressed against the wall, the redhead’s mouth leaving a trail of fire along her throat. Her hands were sliding up Maria’s leg, guiding one leg up to wrap around her hip, only to be hampered by the creaking of lilac taffeta stretched too tight across her spreading legs.

“Damn it.” Maria was too dazed, too dizzy with lust to solve the problem of this ridiculous dress. “Just—rip it.” 

The redhead obliged, seizing one side of Maria’s skirt in each hand and tearing the fabric in a straight line right up to her hip. Maria throbbed at the sudden gasp of air between her legs—at the sight of those lean arms working to lay her bare.

Once Maria’s legs were free, the redhead wasted no time hitching one around her waist and pulling aside Maria’s underwear. A moment later, two fingers slipped inside her and it was almost too soon, almost too much, but still so good.

Maria thrust her hips down into that touch, her bare feet flexing against the carpet. She’d kicked off her shoes somewhere along the way—good riddance. “Make me come,” she said. “Fast, right here, like this—and then—oh, God!—and then I’m gonna take you back to my room and fuck you so slow, eat you out until you’re soaking wet and shaking and—”

The redhead’s mouth covered the low whine as she came, hips juddering so hard she almost twisted out of the other woman’s grip. She worked Maria through her orgasm, holding her up until she’d stopped trembling and could breath again.

“So,” the redhead said, easing Maria’s leg down and wiping her hand carelessly against the abused fabric of her skirt. “This room of yours . . . ?”

It was all Maria could do to laugh, delighted at the turn her evening took. Standing there, her throat covered in a stranger’s lipstick, her dress torn to shreds, shoes gone, hair a wreck—what a vast improvement this was on where she’d been half an hour ago, and things were only looking up from here.


	8. Sam/Bucky/Steve/Nat for nothingcomplete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For nothingcomplete, who asked for Sam/Bucky/Steve/Nat in a "brand new neighbours" AU.

Sam makes Steve wait until the new neighbors are fully moved in before dropping by to welcome them to the neighborhood. They don’t seem to have much stuff, so it’s only a day or two before Sam relents and agrees that they might as well go say hello. Steve brings a Bundt cake, because he’s like that.

The woman who answers the door manages to look gorgeous even with her copper hair pulled back in a ponytail and her t-shirt damp with sweat. She looks between the two of them, sparing a dubious glance for Steve’s cake. “Yes?” she says coolly.

Her demeanor warms slightly as Steve makes introductions—they are Jim and Natalie Barnes, apparently, just moved here from Scarsdale—but, then, it’s almost impossible not to be won over by Steve’s earnest charm. Steve’s just invited them to come over for dinner the following evening when Natalie’s husband appears around a corner, wiping his hands on a rag. One arm, Sam notices, is an impressive metal prosthetic, and he can’t help wondering if the guy’s ex-military. Despite his unassuming polo shirt, he certainly moves with the precision of someone who knows how to use his body as a weapon.

“Did I hear someone say barbecue?” Jim says. 

“Sam’s a master on the grill,” Steve avers. “I’m talking ribs that melt right off the bone.”

“We still have a lot of unpacking to do,” Natalie says carefully, giving her husband a warning look.

“You might as well say you’ll come,” Sam says with an apologetic tilt of his head. “He’s just gonna keep asking.”

Jim and Natalie glance at one another, some conversation passing between them that Sam can’t quite decipher. Finally, Jim offers them a broad smile and says, “We’d love to.” Next to him, Natalie seems less excited than her husband, but finally accepts the cake from Steve, which Sam figures has to count for something.

*

That night, as they’re getting ready for bed, Sam says, “So what did you think of Jim and Natalie?”

“They seem nice.”

“You think everyone’s nice,” Sam points out.

“Not everyone,” Steve insists. “Joe next door is a creep.”

Sam shakes his head. “The fact that ‘creep’ the worst thing you can think to call that guy just proves how determined you are to see the best in everybody.”

“OK, fine, what did _you_ think of them, then?” Steve slips into the bathroom, leaving the door open so Sam can see the muscles in his back move as he leans down over the sink to splash water on his face. 

“I mean, you’re right, they _seem_ nice.” Sam undoes his watch and sets it down on the dresser. “But . . . Didn’t something strike you as kinda strange about Jim and Natalie?”

“Strahh?” Steve asks around a mouthful of toothpaste. He spits into the sink and tries again. “What do you mean, strange?”

Sam shakes his head, dropping his shirt and then his jeans in the laundry basket. “I dunno, just . . .” He struggles to articulate the feeling he’d had standing on their front porch, unable to attribute that impression to any one cause in particular. This is the kind of thinking he counsels his patients to be careful about, the kind of thinking that can save your life in a war zone but that you have to let go of, just a little, on the civilian streets or you’ll never be able to let your guard down. And yet, he can’t help thinking of the impersonal artwork hanging on the wall in the foyer (the kind of canned family photos that come with the frame), the way Jim’s eyes had scanned the front yard over Sam’s shoulder (looking for targets, he couldn’t help but think). 

The water shuts off and Steve appears behind him, looping one arm around his waist and pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder. “Guess we’ll find out at dinner tomorrow.” He breathes deeply against Sam’s skin, his lips moving higher along the line of Sam’s shoulder toward his neck, and Sam lets the subject drop.

*

Across the street, the blue light of a computer screen filled the quiet master bedroom.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” says Mr. Barnes from his spot by the window. “They’re nice. They brought us cake.”

Mrs. Barnes glances up from her laptop to give him a dry look. “Maybe you should join the neighborhood association.”

“Maybe I will,” he replies mulishly. 

She rolls her eyes. “We’ll go tomorrow, but only because there’ll be questions if we don’t.” An alert pings on her laptop, loud in the quiet bedroom. “OK, what about now. Anything?”

He twitches aside the shade and glances out at the quiet, dark street. “No, but someone should really tell the Wilson-Rogers household to close their blinds.” He makes a low, appreciative noise. “On second thought, don’t. God damn.”

Mrs. Barnes’ only response is to whip a blanket at her husband back. “For that, you’re sleeping in the guest room.”

“You think all the rumors about suburban swingers are true?” he asks hopefully, abandoning the view to scoop up the blanket. “I mean, Steve’s got to get bored playing house husband all day, right?”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Barnes says reassuringly. “There’s plenty to go around. I saw the way Sam was looking at you this afternoon. The guy may be married, but he’s not blind.”

“No,” she says darkly, “I think he’s very observant.”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes. “Come on, Nat, lighten up a little. Worst case scenario, we do what we came here to do and we get to enjoy the good life for a while. And, hey, who knows? You might get to like the suburbs after all.”


	9. Natasha/Sharon for tartanfics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For tartanfics, who asked for a Natasha/Sharon fake relationship AU.

“Tell me again why I’m going as your date,” Sharon says, adjusting this miserable strapless bra for what feels like the hundredth time, grateful that the limo’s windows are tinted, so that nobody on the street will get an eyeful if she happens to have a wardrobe malfunction as they go by.

Natasha gives her a slow look out of the corner of her eye. “Rogers is crap at covert ops and Fury thinks we’ll have a better chance of an invite to the back room if he thinks we’re open to a threesome.”

Sharon snorts in disgust. “The most qualified field agent they have and they’ve got you playing honey trap for some sleazy international arms dealer.”

Natasha shrugs one shoulder minutely, her expression neutral. It strikes Sharon as a practiced gesture, but the next moment her attention alights on Sharon’s face and she says, “That lipstick really doesn’t suit you. Here, let me.”

Without waiting for Sharon to reply, she pulls a tissue out of her bag and leans over to wipe the lipstick off Sharon’s mouth. Her touch is cool and efficient, but Sharon still finds her heartbeat speeding up.

“It’s not like this is my area of expertise,” Sharon protests as Natasha hunts around in her purse, presumably for a tube of lipstick. “Gimme a perp with a Kalashnikov any day, but this—” She huffs out a sigh.

“You’ll do fine,” Natasha says, still distracted. Sharon wonders how she can even fit so much stuff into such a tiny bag. “The dress looks good, if you can just stop fiddling with it.”

“It’s so—” She flutters her hands uneasily around her bust, trying to convey how absolutely unlike her usual uniform of a button down and a wool-blend blazer this is. “—exposed.”

Natasha’s gaze dips down to Sharon’s cleavage, then back up to her face. “That’s kind of the point. Here, open your mouth.”

And then Natasha’s fingers are at her jaw, steadying Sharon’s face as she brushes a candy apple red color on in light, confident strokes. Sharon breathes in the dark, complex notes of Natasha’s perfume and tries not to notice how, up close, she can see the hazel ring around Natasha’s irises.

“There.” Natasha leans back and holds up a mirror.

Sharon almost doesn’t recognize herself. She’s always kept her makeup minimal, even on the rare night out, and she expects red lipstick to make her look like a clown or a child playing dress-up, but it doesn’t. Instead, it makes her look like—well, like someone who belongs in an expensive nightclub, with a gorgeous girlfriend on her arm.

Just then, the limo rolls to a stop and Natasha snaps her bag shut. “Ready?” she asks.

Sharon doesn’t feel ready—if anything, she feels even more unprepared than she did five minutes ago—but she nods, and adjusts her bra one last time before she follows Natasha out of the car.

Inside, it’s dark and loud and Sharon can feel herself starting to tense up already, until Natasha slides an arm around her waist and leans in to whisper in her ear, “Just follow my lead.”

It’s not hard to do. It’s no challenge at all to let Natasha guide her over to the bar and order her a drink. She leads Sharon into the crush of the crowd, one hand on her lower back, and before long they’ve eased their way into conversation with a group of the gunrunner’s hangers-on.

In the same way that that little bit of color on her lips transformed her entire face, Natasha under cover is an entirely different person, not just an agent playing a role but someone else completely.

Sharon always knew Natasha was good. After all, she didn’t get to be the agency’s top undercover operative by accident. But her ability to disappear completely into another person is extraordinary.

This Natasha isn’t the still, reserved woman who will sometimes glance coolly over at Sharon during briefings and almost—almost—smile. This woman—who is Natalie, not Natasha at all—is loose and flirty and easily physical, touching Sharon’s arm and gesturing extravagantly with the hand that isn’t holding her glass. Her voice is higher, her laughter freer and more shrill. She plays Natalie as a lightweight, but she’s subtly tipsy, nothing too over the top. It’s a perfectly calibrated display—and it wrenches Sharon, a little, that this is all for the benefit of some dirtbag criminal who’d hardly even worth their time if it weren’t for his connections. 

After they’ve been circulating the crowd for about an hour, Natasha pretends to stumble against Sharon, and Sharon reaches out to catch her by reflex, pulling her close so that Natasha’s full breasts press against her side.

“I’m going to try my luck,” she murmurs against Sharon’s cheek. “If everything goes according to plan, he’ll send someone for you shortly. If you don’t hear anything after fifteen minutes, play the jealous girlfriend and come find me.”

Sharon doesn’t think she’ll have any problem putting on that act. “Will do.”

Natasha nods and straightens up, steadying herself with her hands on Sharon’s hips. When she lets go, Sharon expects her to pull away, but instead she leans back in and kisses Sharon on the mouth. It’s not a chaste little good-bye kiss, either, but a slow, lingering kiss that Sharon feels all the way down to her knees.

“Try not to miss me too much, honey,” Natasha says, loud enough for the group to hear, and then she’s off, weaving her way through the crowd. Sharon stares after her for long enough that one of the other people in their group laughs and says, “Still in the honeymoon phase, huh? How long have you been together?”

“Six months,” Sharon lies easily, and she finds herself wishing, suddenly, that it were true.


	10. Sam/Steve for nothingcomplete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For nothingcomplete, who asked for a Sam/Steve "librarian/avid reader" AU.

They call him ‘Captain America’, because he has the bearing of a soldier and he’s gradually reading everything they have from 973 to 979—and also because it’s slow at the circ desk during the evening shift and apparently Darcy doesn’t have anything better to do than come up with nicknames for the patron Sam’s currently crushing on.

The guy’s real name is Steve, Steve Rogers, library card #1918-199999-616. Sam should probably be embarrassed that he’s got the guy’s card number memorized, but he comes in a lot. Like, almost every other day a lot.

And if there’s one thing Sam finds sexy, it’s an avid reader. Dude checks out two or three books every time he comes in, only to come back for more a couple of days later, and Sam can’t help imagining what he must look like when he’s reading—curled up against the arm of a couch or stretched out on a lawn chair, a look of rapt attention on his face as he turns the pages. Sam’s seen that look on his face—spotted him in the stacks once, reading a back cover blurb with such intense focus it was all Sam could do to keep from pushing him back against the shelves right there. Sam would pay good money to have such a voracious gaze fixed on him.

“He’s _totally_ into you,” Darcy insists, not for the first time.

Sam’s not so sure. He’s generally pretty good at reading people, and he can usually tell when someone’s coming on to him, but in this case, he just can’t figure out if it’s good-natured banter or genuine flirtation. Steve’s charming, and he laughs at Sam’s jokes, but he does the same to Darcy, so Sam’s inclined to think the guy’s just polite and naturally charismatic.

That doesn’t mean Sam doesn’t look forward to seeing him. Even if it’s just idle flirtation that will never lead to anything, he likes Steve. He’s pretty sure he’d like anybody who can muster up as much excitement for the obscure corners of the American past. Last week, it was the Tuskeegee experiments, and this evening when he comes (always half an hour before closing), he returns the copy of _Medical Apartheid_ from last time and gives Sam a small smile.

“Thanks for the recommendation,” he says. “It was—”

“Heavy, I know,” Sam says sympathetically.

“I was gonna say ‘eye-opening’. I’m almost done with _The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks_ , too. I’m—well, ‘enjoying it’ isn’t quite it, but—”

Sam nods. “I got you.”

“I was going to wait until I’d finished it to return this—” He gestures to the book Sam is checking back in. “—but I caught this documentary on national parks on TV last night and, well, I got curious. I checked the catalog last night, but all I could find were coffee table photo books and travel guides. I was up till two in the morning on Wikipedia—Did you know that the White House gardens actually fall under the jurisdiction of the National Park Service?”

Sam can’t help laughing, ‘cause this isn’t the first time he’s noticed that Steve is inquisitive almost to the point of impatience. (In his weaker moments, Sam’s wondered how that tendency manifests itself in other areas of Steve’s life—and by “wondered”, Sam means “fantasized”. Steve seems the adventurous type, maybe a little bossy, but thorough, and always, always game.) “Man,” he says finally, reminding himself that it’s not polite to laugh at library patrons, “it’s not a race, you know.””

Steve tips his head, one eyebrow raised. “How’s that?”

“It’s just—every time you come in here, it’s like you’re trying to cram in everything you can possibly read as quickly as you can. It’s not like the books are going anywhere.”

Steve’s smile is small, his lashes long against his cheeks as he glances down at the counter. “Maybe I’m just tired of taking it slow.”

And, OK, Sam is _not_ imagining the bolt of heat that goes straight through the core of him when Steve looks back up and meets his gaze. “Uh—” Sam’s voice scrapes in his throat, which is suddenly very dry. He taps a couple of search terms into the library catalog and says, “Let’s see if we can find you something you haven’t already read.”

As he ducks out from behind the circulation desk, he very pointedly does not acknowledge Darcy giving him the thumbs-up behind Steve’s back. They walk together across the nearly deserted main reading area to the quiet, dim corner where the books on conservation live. 

“So you’ll probably want some John Muir,” Sam says, delving deeper into the stacks, shelf-reading for the call number he’s looking for. “And if you haven’t already read it, _Silent Spring_ is a classic. Not exactly on the subject of the Park Service, but it’s well worth checking out.” Sam’s talking pure nonsense, just running his mouth to distract himself from the thought the slightest misstep would put him back-to-front with the man he’s spent countless hours fantasizing about while reshelving at the end of the night. “I mean, you strike me as a pretty open-minded guy—”

“Sam,” Steve says.

Sam turns around to find Steve looking oddly nervous, color rising on his cheeks. “Yeah?”

“Just—” Steve takes what Sam reads as a little steadying breath. “Ask me if I wanna have coffee with you after your shift ends.”

“You wanna grab a coffee when my shift ends?” Sam asks.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Steve says, sagging in relief. “I have been coming in for months hoping you’d do that because I was too nervous to do it myself.”

Sam grins. “Yeah? ‘Cause there’s something I’ve been wanting to do, too.”

Steve’s blush redoubles. “Oh?”

Placing one hand flat on Steve’s chest, Sam eases him back against the shelves, closing the distance between them until Steve’s lips are only inches away. “Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued in [chapter twelve](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2278317/chapters/6024488).


	11. Bucky/Steve/Peggy for dreadfuldicks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this [spectacularly hot Bucky/Steve/Peggy artwork](http://dreadfuldicks.tumblr.com/post/96015243945/they-both-love-sitting-on-him-and-what-could-b) by dreadfuldicks.

Even now, even after everything the three of them have done together, Steve is still in many ways just as shy as he was when he was caught between them for the first time. He still blushes when Bucky whispers filthy suggestions in his ear, and he still tries to hide his face in the curve of Peggy’s neck when he comes. This is all so new to him—this powerful, wonderfully responsive new body, yes, but even more than that, the thought of desire being reciprocated, the freedom to _want_.

But, oh, he does want. Badly, more fiercely than he can ever remember wanting before. He wants Bucky’s fingers inside him, teasing him open, and the stuttering slide of his cock between Bucky’s thighs, and Peggy’s cunt swollen and hot against his mouth. He wants the undulating rhythm of Peggy’s hips as she fucks him, Bucky’s quick tongue on his skin. He wants, he wants, he wants—

“Insatiable,” Bucky chides, but the smirk in his voice belies the admonishment.

“Oh,” Steve chokes out, shuddering so hard he almost loses his seat on Bucky’s cock. “Nng, _more_.”

“You’re not trying terribly hard to disprove him, are you?” Peggy asks from her spot on the edge of the mattress.

Steve would answer, but he can’t _breathe_ for how badly he wants to be fucked right now. They’ve been drawing it out—Bucky teasing him with slow, dragging thrusts, Peggy with light, feathery touches to his cock—and Steve’s thighs are shaking and he aches— _aches_ —for something more substantial, for Peggy to squeeze him rough, for Bucky to shove up into him, his hands tight on Steve’s hips.

“Hey, if you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem,” Bucky says, and Peggy gives him a withering look.

“Just for that, Sergeant, you can solve a little problem I’ve been having.” She lets go of Steve’s cock and hoists one leg over Bucky’s chest so her knees are straddling his shoulders.

Steve has only a moment to appreciate the play of her creamy shoulders in front of him before he realizes what she’s doing. Bucky seems to be just as slow on the uptake as him, because when she lowers her cunt to his mouth, he lets out a shocked moan and his hips jerk roughly.

Peggy lets out an encouraging hum and rocks herself against Bucky’s face. Steve can’t help staring at the way her buttocks ride his chest. There is a wet noise as Bucky licks into her in earnest and Steve has to grip his cock for some kind of relief, because he didn’t think he could want any more, but he does.

It’s not just sight of them, his two lovers, that makes Steve so wild. They’re gorgeous, it’s true, but the thing that strikes pure heat through the core of him is how casually, how comfortably they show their desire. They want easily, playfully even, asking for pleasure and giving it freely. And, as improbably as it seems to him after years spent being next to invisible to every object of his desire, they’re both of them _right here_ —his for the taking. Whatever Steve wants, they’re ready to give him, just as he would do anything for either of them.

As Peggy reaches down between her legs to chase her own orgasm, Steve decides that sometimes reticence doesn’t pay. Sometimes, it’s worth it to reach out and take what’s right in front of you.

“Fuck me harder,” he tells Bucky, even though the words make him blush. Bucky obliges, snapping his hips just right, stealing the breath out of Steve’s lungs in a long sob. He lurches forward from the force of Bucky’s thrusts, pressing his forehead against the sweet, sweat-smelling planes of Peggy’s shoulders and working his cock furiously. “Harder, Bucky, do it, fuck me.”

“That’s it,” Peggy breathes, twisting around to work a reassuring hand into his hair. “Make him give you what you want.”

Bucky’s strokes are a quick, relentless rub inside him now and he can hear the wet sounds of Bucky’s mouth against Peggy’s cunt, and yes, yes, _this_ is what he wants.


	12. Sam/Steve for snogandagrope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For snogandagrope, who asked for more of the [Sam/Steve library AU](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2278317/chapters/5007051) I started for nothingcomplete

“So this coffee we’re going to go have,” Sam says after a while.

“Uh-huh?” Steve doesn’t seem to be listening. His attention focused, instead, on tipping his head back to give Sam better access to his throat.

Sam presses his lips against Steve’s pulse point, breathing in the sweat-and-aftershave smell of his skin. His hands have slipped lower, down to Steve’s waist, where he can feel every breath the other man takes. “Did you have any particular place in mind?”

“Not . . . mm . . . particularly.”

“You sure?” He bites gently at the sharp edge of that chiseled jaw, and the shiver he gets in return causes Steve to press all along his body. “ ‘Cause it kinda sounded like you’ve been thinking about this a lot . . .”

Steve laughs, breathless. “From the sound of it, I wasn’t the only one.”

And then Sam is laughing, too, trying to smother the sound against Steve’s shoulder because sound carries in here and this is the sort of thing you get shushed for. 

“Attention library patrons,” comes Darcy’s voice crackling over the loudspeaker, “the library will be closing in fifteen minutes. All public computers stations are now closed for the evening. Please stop macking on hot dudes in the nonfiction section and bring your final selections to the circulation desk.”

“Busted,” Sam says into the crook of Steve’s neck, reluctant to relinquish his prime position.

He can practically feel the blush spreading up Steve’s neck, a wounded noise caught in his throat. “It was just _one_ hot dude,” he says.

Grinning, Sam straightens up, though his hands linger at Steve’s waist. “I gotta do a few things before we can close up, maybe half an hour, forty-five minutes tops. You can hang out at the circ desk, if you don’t mind waiting?”

“Took me so long to get this far,” Steve says lightly, “guess I can wait a little longer.”

“Months, you said?” Sam can’t fight the smile that keeps pulling at the corners of his lips. “We _really_ gotta do something about that.” 

Darcy wolf whistles when they emerge from the stacks, and he can practically feel Steve blushing. He feels a little bad, leaving Steve out here with Darcy while he escapes into the back office, but he has the feeling Steve can handle a little third degree from a part-time library assistant who’s still a few semesters away from her MLIS.

He tries to finish out his shift as quickly as possible, but it’s difficult to do when Steve’s touch, the hot press of his lips, has thrown Sam so far off balance. He feels clumsy, dazed, like he’s operating just outside the limits of his skin. It reminds him of another life, years ago—the tick in his pulse before a jump, the adrenaline coasting through him even after they returned to base. It’s been a long time since he felt that way—longer still since it was another person and not the drop out of a plane that made him feel that way.

When he finally emerges from the back office with his jacket on his arm, the main reading room is dark save for the safety lighting and he can just barely see Steve and Darcy standing in front of the circulation desk, their faces lit by the glow of Darcy’s phone. Steve is leaning down to see the screen better and they’re both laughing. The sound, garbled on the phone’s tinny speakers, is hard to make out, but it sounds almost like Swedish or something. When he peers over Darcy’s shoulder, it looks like a YouTube video of two monks reading a book, which does absolutely nothing to clear his confusion up.

“Do I even want to know?”

“We were talking about dumb help desk questions,” Darcy says.

Steve glances up, catching Sam’s eye, and even in the half-dark Sam finds it staggering to have that bright, eager, attentive gaze fixed on _him_. “You ready to go?”

Sam doesn’t trust himself not to say something stupid, so he just nods and ushers them out of the building while he sets the alarm. 

“Night, boys!” Darcy calls coyly over her shoulder as she walks to her car.

Now that they’re alone together, Steve seems to have grown shy. Not even an hour ago, he was pressed up against Sam, teasing him between kisses, and now he’s staring at his shoes like a nervous teenager. Sam reminds himself that this is a man who went months without saying anything to Sam about how he felt, who only worked up the nerve to do something about it by making Sam do it for him. 

“So, coffee?” Sam prompts. 

“Starbucks closes at nine,” Steve says ruefully. “I Googled it while you were locking up. If you want to take a rain check, I’d understand. It’s late, you’ve probably had a long day, it was presumptuous of me to—”

“Or you could just come over to my place,” Sam says.

Steve blinks at him.

“I mean, I can’t make those little shapes in the foam of your mochaccino or anything, but regular coffee I can do.”

“Regular coffee would be great,” Steve says quickly, the nervous expression he was wearing a moment ago giving way to a bright grin.

Which is how they wind up in Sam’s kitchen, Steve leaning lightly against the counter as Sam pulls the bag of coffee out of the freezer. Once he’s finally put the grounds in and switched the machine on, he turns to Steve, who’s watching him attentively.

The kitchen is small, and Sam closes the distance between them easily. Standing there in front of Steve, he almost doesn’t know where he wants to start—those corded arms, that broad chest, the waist that narrows down, down into lean hips. He settles for putting his palms on Steve’s bare forearms, a grounding touch.

“This OK?”

Steve lets out a long breath and nods. Sam can feel Steve’s next inhale, just before he says, “Kiss me again?”

So Sam does, happily. And just like that, the spark that flared between them in the stacks is back, all the brighter for having been deferred. 

Steve’s hesitation burns away under Sam’s touch, too. Before Sam knows it Steve is pulling him close, hands tight on his shoulders, and kissing him desperately. He gasps wetly into Sam’s mouth when Sam rolls their hips together. The edge of the counter must be digging into Steve’s ass, but he doesn’t let up, just crushes Sam closer.

Somewhere, distantly, way in the back of his brain, Sam is aware of the chirp of the coffee maker informing him it’s done brewing, but Steve’s hands are worming their way under his shirt and good _lord_ he can feel Steve’s cock hot against his thigh even through their clothes and at this point nothing else matters.

“Can I—?” Sam starts, but Steve is saying, “Yes, yes, please,” even before Sam can get the question out, and that’s how he discovers the breathless little noises Steve makes at the back of his throat as Sam jerks him off, and the quick, hot circle of Steve’s fingers around his own cock. There, against the kitchen counter, he learns the way Steve’s abdomen shivers and his eyes go wide as he spills hot all over Sam’s hand, and the fierce touch of Steve’s mouth as he brings Sam off.

And later: the flutter of Steve’s eyelashes, his self-deprecating laugh, the warm touch of his hand on Sam’s as they _finally_ get around to that cup of coffee.


End file.
